My sister died this year. She was young, only in her 40’s and funny and slightly initmidating and now she’s gone. We would talk sporadically. She was a state away and usually in a different state of mind, one that I recognized all too well. She hurt deep inside where no light shines. She was hurt physically and mentally by family members and former lovers. She had kids, four of them, that spent most of their lives in the care of others.

My sister started out as my friend. My family moved into the house across the street from hers when I was around 8 years old. Not long after my parents got divorced, by then hers already were. She was a few years older than my sisters and I, our cul-de-sac became our playground. During the long hot days of summer we rode our bikes and walked to the park or the mall. At night we slept over and giggled, we joked about becoming sisters if our mom married her dad. Life is funny sometimes and you get what you ask for. Our parents did get married and we all became sisters.

As friends and sisters sometimes do, we drifted apart. We both moved away from that dead end street and out into the world. Though the paths were different we followed a similar route fraught with drugs, abuse, heartache and longing for our children. Hers were separated from her and each other and lived with their grandmother, their aunt and their father, mine lived with his dad. We would talk about making changes in our lives and getting them back. Eventually I was able to overcome my history. Ally wasn’t. Her story was too deeply etched on her heart, its tale too long and full of memories, her scars too painful. She thought the road back was not open to her.

The day she died she sent me an instant message, of one word “hi”. I didn’t see it in time. Instead, 48 hours later my mom called and said she was gone. The air sucked out of my lungs like a balloon popped and I crumpled into tears leaning against the kitchen counter wailing like a baby for my sister. I have lost a lot of people, that’s what happens as you grow up, family and friends start to leave this place. Whether its sickness or accident, whether its forewarned or sudden, it happens and you sorta get used to it. In 2010 I went to five funerals, I thought I was OK with death, that I had accepted it as a part of life but this one hit me hard.

I thought of her often over the next weeks, of our childhoods, our family trips, our silly jokes. In the days leading up to her memorial I thought about what I wanted to say to her, about her. What would sum up the life of this girl who I met across the street? What could relate the silliness of her made up words and nicknames, the way she became more fluent in Spanish than even the native speakers we knew, the way she was larger than life and fragile as a child all at the same time. What could relate the love and guilt she had for her children, how much she wanted them to know her, how much she loved them and wanted what was best for them even if it tore her heart out. There were no words to encompass all of that.

The day of the memorial came and it was one of the most painful services I have ever attended. Her children, now all grown, had come from their various parts of the world. Her eldest a teacher in China, her middle son just graduated high school and working for another family member. The youngest son travelling from his uncles house in Chicago and her baby girl, only 16, on a lone journey from her fathers home in Mexico to spend one afternoon with the friends and family of the mother she had never known. There were introductions and broken conversations translated into Spanish and English and back again. If only Ally was there to speak for us all. There were pictures passed around and tales of “I remember when”. If only Ally was there with her impeccable memory and recall of details. Eventually came time for the guests to say a few words.

As prayers were read and poems whispered, as songs were sung I thought of her. Of how much I loved her, and how much I wished I could have helped her then, how I could help her now and how I wanted to help her kids, struggling with the anger and loss of their mother. I pulled myself up and walked to the podium. I started out there much like I did here. Reminiscing about two little girls who wished to be sisters, about two friends who loved each other, about our family. Then for some reason, I thought of her freckled toe.

I launched into this whole story about her toe! When we were younger our family would take trips to Arizona and the Colorado River. Our grandparents had a mobile home and a pontoon boat. We would sit on the front of the boat where there was a small fishing deck. As we slowly drifted through the reeds we’d dip our feet in and let the water glide across the tips of our toes. Of us younger ones, only she and I had legs long enough to reach the surface from our seated position at the front of the boat. We sat there and watched the water magnify our toes into distorted flesh colored balloons as they pushed into the glossy green depths. During one of these adventures I noticed she had a single freckle on tip of her middle toe. Isn’t it strange what kids see and what strikes them? I thought that freckle was the funniest thing. As we grew older I would think of that freckled toe with fondness. I loved the uniqueness that was Ally summed up in that one tiny dot. During our years adrift, I wondered where that toe was, had it been through the hurt and pain we both had faced? Was it still there on her foot or did it fade like the sun across the lake?  Then in front of all those that loved her, I spoke of her toe. How much it meant to me and how, by some weird twist of fate and manifestation, I had conjured up my very own toe freckle on the same toe, same spot, in the same color. I closed by saying I am not sure what that means, me getting the same freckle that my sister had. For me I chose to believe it is because we are sisters, in the way that God intended, through love and history if not a shared bloodline.

I stepped down and walked back to my seat, immediately replaying what I said and wondering why I had launched into this Freckled Toe story instead of the myriad of other events that had shaped us, editing and reediting my speech in my mind, as if I could change it. As I took my seat, my nephew Alex stood up. He was angry with his mother; he was resentful at her choices, her mistakes, and for missing out on his siblings and parents. He spoke of this but he also cried, part of his heart visibly softening with each word uttered. I felt his heartache and loss; I felt his confusion and angst. I felt my sisters pain and loss as well.  As he was wrapping up, he turned towards me. He said, “I have a freckle on my toe too. I always wondered about it. Now I know where it came from.”

We may not always know what the point is, what purpose is being served by our words or actions, at times they may seem arbitrary or absurd, but I have seen that there is a point; there is a purpose for everything, every word, every turn, every day and every freckle on your toe.